February 5, 2008
poem of a short order cook
The ring of fire in her
jabs and slides
as she bobs and weaves a tale,
fingerpicks and breathes
copedent, not codependent
i try not to bruise from these
sad childhoods, both raised in the same ring
both loving the color of the robes
more than the fights..and so
he thought they had learned to finally sail
you know with the first sickness of motion
you know that's how a good journey always begins
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